Ready to be King
by Little Obsessions
Summary: "Joseph watched the exchange from behind a lens of nostalgia. He saw the 10 year old boy, curled up on his mother's lap. Her mouth shaping around childish words in reading books. The promises that he would love her forever and his love was infinite. Did all children make those promises? Even to a queen, those promises must have meant something." C and J.
1. The Prologue

This chapter story will explore what happened just before Phillipe's death and before they went to the US for Amelia. Please enjoy and R&R. None of these characters belong to me but to Disney and Meg Cabot.

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"I lied to her today," she whispered, damp tears soaking through his shirt. She had soaked many a shirt, with similar tears, over the last few years.

"Lied?"

"I told her he was ready to be king."

His heart broke for her then.


	2. Part 1

"What will you do tonight?"

Phillipe did not answer her still, his face impassive. He was sitting before the fire in the parlour, where he had been for the past few days. All he did was eat, sleep, bathe and sit.

"Who knows," he shrugged, his broad shoulders lifting under his polo shirt.

She steeled herself again, bit back her temper and Joseph could see her mentally prepare herself for another round against her youngest son.

"You could help with the planning of the coronatio-"

"It's been a year today," her son interrupted, "You know. And you've yet to mention it."

"I know," she rubbed her hand across her brow, "Don't think I did-"

Her son turned to her, snapping his heads round swiftly, his anger suddenly blooming and filling the room to the very edges.

"You did! You just don't care. You don't care!"

Phillipe stood up, stalking towards her. His whole bearing was threatening and Joseph moved instinctively, drawing himself neared to the queen.

"You don't care, you couldn't care less about his being dead or my being miserable or my daughter or my misery. Or – or..."

He had run out of steam now but he was inches from her face. She had not, she did not, flinch. She stood with her back ram rod straight, one hand resting on her desk while the other betrayed her. She fiddled with the button on her suit jacket nervously as her son stood, heaving before her.

"You're not even wearing black any more!"

She inhaled a deep breath, looked at her son. A number of cruel answers were gathering on her tongue. His sudden intensity about his father's anniversary was entirely new to her and she felt like saying something rather nasty in that regard. You could not have cared less about him when he was alive, she wanted to say. She didn't though because it would have been unkind and untrue. Instead she sighed. She had decided to wear a cream suit today and she was paying for it.

"Life," she said softly, forcing herself to remember she had to be a mother at this point, "Has a terrible habit of making us move on Phillipe. Just because I am not saying it, doesn't mean -"

"Mama," he interrupted, "I don't care about your advice – it's empty and contrived. I don't care."

He brushed past her and turned at the door, "Just like you don't."

The only thing that broke the silence was the slamming of the door as the crown prince left.

She swivelled on her heels, "I don't know what...Oh! Damn him!"

She lifted a nearby vase and with more strength than she thought she was capable of, hurled it at the closed door. It was surprisingly cathartic – the water splashed against the solid oak as the vase fragmented into shattered pieces across the floor. She slumped a little, her ire having departed and shattered like the vase, and fell into a chair.

"He's so selfish," she turned to Joseph, "I don't know what's happened to him."

"It's been a difficult year for him...for you both," he answered, bending down to scoop up the slithers of porcelain.

"Leave that," she said firmly.

"No," he answered, "I'm not going to leave it for one of the maids to clean."

"Oh I can't do anything right," she threw her hands up.

"I never said that," he said calmly as he lifted decimated stems and flower heads from the rich flooring.

"I can't get through to him," she whispered, and no one could have failed to note the despair in her voice, "It would be better for him to abdicate. No one has said it but it is evident that he does not want this. He does not want to be king."

"He is unhappy," he answered vaguely, wiping his hands on a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket.

He had to tread carefully around this subject. For one, it was entirely personal to her and for another it was something she had taken upon herself. She guarded the responsibility she had as if it were a secret. She treated it as sacred.

"He has been unhappy," she said pointedly, "For a number of years. Not just since his father died. I think," she paused, as if she had to work the words out from her mouth, "I think I may have to accept defeat."

He looked at her, slumped over in the chair. Her face was flushed with stress, a blush of fury had crept up over her neck to sit high on her cheekbones. In another circumstance he may have found the slight crease of her shirt and the tousled, finger-combed hair rather endearing. At this point however it vexed him rather than made him affectionate. He had watched her relationship with her youngest son decline to the point that they could no longer occupy the same room without rowing. It had become uncomfortable for everyone, not least for him.

He thought very seriously about making the suggestion he was about to.

He had worked for the Renaldis for a very long time; longer than he cared to remember. He had known the boys for most of their years. He had served the King loyally until he drew his dying breath in an overcrowded, stuffy bed chamber. He served the King still - the man he had envied for a very long time.

And then there was her.

To describe, to actually cognitively make a decision about how he felt about her, seemed irreverent. All he was able to admit was that he knew her. He knew her very well.

Thus he weighed up his choice to say this carefully.

"There is another -slim - possibility," he ventured tentatively.

She turned sharply, "The ruthless politician in me has considered it. Just imagine; "Phillipe I know, my darling, that you don't want the throne but how do you think your 14 year old daughter might like it?" I don't think so Joseph. He hates this crown; he'd rather see it die out. I have to accept that. He will never, he will never, be ready to be king. And he does not want his genetic legacy, Renaldi or not, anywhere near that bloody throne room!"

He nodded, "I know."

She looked out of the window, "Thank you for trying to help," she smiled weakly, "But he will not bend. And god damn me to hell but the mother in me -" she almost growled, "The mother in me does not blame him. No mother, no matter how remote, wants her son to be unhappy. But I promised him..."

She trailed off and shrugged. She had lost the determination she needed to have this conversation. It had slid from her body and slithered from the room. He was surprised by her description of remoteness. He chose to ignore it, instead he came towards her and placed his hand on her forearm as he sat on the stool at her feet. It drew another weak smile.

"I have to accept it," she said finally.

"You've not let him down."

"I bore him two sons who don't want their birthright. I bore him a son who ran away and another who is..." She laughed ruefully, "A bloody republican bohemian. I let him down."

"You're swearing an awful lot," he laughed ruefully.

"Bloody is about as crude as I get," she answered, leaning forward to remove her jacket.

He took it from her and slung it across the arm of the couch.

"It's saying it that I can't bear," she said suddenly, "I can't bear to ask him if he does not want it because I can't stand to hear his answer Joseph."

"But," he said kindly, "You are delaying the inevitable. You're avoiding the truth."

"Pour me a drink please Joseph," she motioned to the decanter on the side board.

"Is that a good idea?" He asked as he poured anyway.

"No," she answered, "But I need some Dutch courage."

She took the glass from him and cradled it in her fine hands.

"Do you know what's ironic?"

"What?" He reached for the coffee pot.

He was grateful that it was still warm because he had the feeling that this conversation was going to be extensive. It was going to be one of those ones in which revelations came in fits and starts.

"That I don't even care about being queen, not really," she sipped the honey-coloured drink, grimaced a little as it set fire to her mouth, "I just wanted to do the one thing I set out to do and ultimately, obviously, I failed. The irony is I'll be glad to shed this title, and these responsibilities, but not in this way."

"How," he said, frustration evident in his voice, "Did you fail?"

"I failed to raise my sons properly," she said simply, "I couldn't make them want it."

"Would anyone want it?"

"No one in their right mind," she laughed dryly, "It makes me worry rather."

"Of course it does," he laughed, "You're sane...most of the time."

"Joseph," she said, "I'll need to speak to him."

"Yes, you will."

"What then?"

"It will -"

"I'm titled in my own right you know," she interrupted, "I have an estate, I am a Duchess. It's not about that though...what do I do? How do I face the Von Trokens and know I failed?"

"I'll be here," was all he could say. It sounded stupidly placating. He hated himself for it.

"I know that my dear," she answered, "I don't doubt that. I need to just get it over with. Where will he be?"

"When he's annoyed he goes to the woods, or the bar..." he trailed off, looking at her from behind his cup.

"Go on, say it," she said, "To that girl he's been cavorting around with."

"Well...yes," he answered evenly.

"I regret what happened with Amelia's mother," she continued, "I regret that people think it was me who made the choice but most of all I regret what we took away from our son. And when I say 'we', I mean 'we'. We did something so cruel to him – we gave him no choice."

"I don't know so much," he shook his head, "Phillipe, at the end of the day, made that decision. He could have defied you both."

"Rupert and I both overpowered him," she said quietly, "He had no choice."

"Then he didn't want it enough," Joseph answered, "Or he wanted something more. No one makes choices for you Clarisse...not really. Someone can cajole you, or they can force your hand, but they cannot make a choice for you. It is very simple. It is his guilt that he is battling with, not you."

She raised her head to look at him, "And isn't that even more terrible?"

He nodded and there was nothing left to say.

"It is so sad that he regrets his choices Joseph," she whispered, "And if I – we- hadn't been selfish, we would have advised him better. We would have told him to stay with his child. To make a life worth living. Rupert was – he was so..."

Moments like this were cruel to him. He would watch her struggle to criticise the former king, the man she had cared for, the man to whom she had been married for many years. Jealousy, hot and thick, traveled through him. She was vocal in her criticism of his indiscretions in the past, and when Joseph had stood outside doors and heard them hurl insults and barbs at each other, she had never been economic with her intense dislike of whatever her husband had done. Not once though, had she openly criticised the King to Joseph. She wouldn't – he knew. One last barrier. One last frontier to maintain.

He saw her battle with herself. He saw the words leave her lips, swallowed in propriety. They hung on the end of her lips before she consumed them again.

"You don't have to explain," he finally murmured, because he couldn't stand to watch her battle internally.

"No," she polished off the remainder of the glass, "I don't have the words...that was always my problem."

"You should go to bed."

"I won't be able to sleep," she whispered, "Will you stand outside tonight?"

"Of course," he nodded. What she really meant with that question was 'Will you sit on my couch all night and keep my demons at bay?'

"And you'll be there when I speak to him?"

"Of course," he took the glass from her hands, placing it on the tray that the maids would collect later.

"Maybe," she managed a dry laugh as she took the hand he offered and threaded her arm through his, "Maybe one day you'll have more than those words."

"Maybe."

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Thank you for reading. Please read and review.


	3. Part 2

Thank you for reviewing the previous chapter.

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"Eat with me tomorrow evening?"

The tone was one of placation, of kindness. Her son looked up at her from the magazine he was reading.

"I have dinner with -"

"Phillipe," she whispered, "I don't want to argue with you. I just want to dine with my son. Please, there is no agenda. Hidden or otherwise."

"Yes," he answered, almost too quickly, "Of course mama."

Joseph watched the exchange from behind a lens of nostalgia. He saw the 10 year old boy, curled up on his mother's lap. Her mouth shaping around childish words in reading books. The promises that he would love her forever and his love was infinite. Did all children make those promises? Even to a queen, those promises must have meant something.

He thanked God he did not have children. He cursed God that he did not have children. He cursed God that he had borrowed hers. He hated himself for feeling this way.

She smiled, "Thank you Phillipe."

He proceeded to follow her out of the door but the crown prince called him back.

"Joe, is there an agenda?"

The door was barely shut before he asked, accusation lacing every word.

Joseph thought back to when the prince had been young and trusting. Somewhere along the line of life he had shed that trust like a skin and now all he was full of was suspicion. Life had a habit of doing that to you. He sighed inwardly; he had become an arbiter in the most bitter of fights.

"Your Highness, I-"

"Since when did you call me that in private?" the prince scoffed.

"Since you spoke to me like a mere employee, Phillipe," Joseph answered simply.

The smirk slid from Phillipe's face and he curled in on himself, like the 10 year old boy being scolded,"I was asking you a question, that is all."

His tone was belligerent.

"It was not the fact you were asking," he answered, body rigid as he stood before the prince. He could not bring himself to treat this child as no more than a boy whom he felt responsible for, "But what you were asking."

"You always defend her," Phillipe grumbled.

"I don't," he answered, "But I won't have you insult your mother, because bare in mind she is your mother, in front of me. She told you she wants to dine with you. She asked kindly, with far more grace than you are inclined to offer her. The least you could do was to pretend to believe her."

"Do you believe her?"

"Of course," he answered.

"She hates me Joseph," he said suddenly as if the thought had just come to him and the urgency to say it had been absolute.

"That's ridiculous Phillippe," he answered, feeling suddenly exhausted with his role of arbiter, "She is your mother."

"Every thing I do lets her down," he continued, wringing his hands rather nervously, "Do you remember I was her favourite? Do you remember? Do you remember how she tucked me into bed, even though there were nannies and all sorts."

"You are blaming her for your own decision."

"I didn't really think it would happen Joseph," he ignored the other man's accusation, "I didn't think my father would really die and leave me this. Not really. I remember when Pierre abdicated and thinking, "It'll never really happen." I remember Mia being born and thinking "I don't need to leave her, not really." I did it all without thinking. I did it all when I was dreaming."

Joseph nodded, reaching forward and squeezing the younger man's shoulder companionably. He didn't have the energy to engage in this self-same conversation they'd been having since he had left Mia and Helen at the airport in San Fransisco. He hadn't even visited his child since then and it was because he couldn't bare to do so – because he had never been particularly excellent at facing up to his mistakes.

"Just have dinner with her," he answered, "Ok?"

"Ok."

As Clarisse did with everything in her life, she fretted over this dinner. She fretted over what linens to use and in which dining room it should be hosted.

"He won't care," he finally answered, after she asked for his reassurance in regards to the crockery choice, "His favourite food is a Big Mac."

"What's that?"

"Never mind," he smiled at her ignorance, "Listen – you're fretting over nothing. It's 10 o'clock. You need to sleep. Clarisse...I need to sleep."

"I know," she cradled her head in her hands. It went a lot deeper than crockery, he knew, but there was only so much she could make right or fix. Some things just had to happen of their own volition, "Ok, ok."

"Ok," he stood up, offering her his hand.

He escorted her from her office to the room, pausing at the doors.

"Come in," it wasn't even a question, "I want to have some tea."

' I am exhausted' lingered on the tip of his tongue for a moment. He swallowed it. Clarisse rarely made a request. She'd stopped making them a long time ago because queens didn't have to make requests.

"Only if I can have coffee," he responded, nodding at the footmen as they passed. They held the doors to her suite open.

"That will keep you awake," she answered thoughtfully.

"I doubt it," he watched as she lifted the phone and requested a tray with coffee and tea and some pear tarts.

She removed one earring when on the phone, then switching the receiver to the other ear, removed the remaining one. She kicked off her shoes and then scratched behind her knee lightly, hiking up her skirt with ignorant fingers as she did so. She pulled her blouse out from the waist band too.

He was mesmerised.

She hung up the receiver and bent down to tidy her shoes. Then she turned to him and smiled; completely ignorant of his admiration.

He scolded himself.

"I'm utterly, thoroughly, exhausted," she sat down on the couch, just as Priscilla entered with the tea.

Joseph took the tray from her and deposited it on the coffee table. He began to pour the tea, at great pains to ensure it was just as she liked it. She tipped her head back, her mouth open slightly, her hands splayed out on the cushions.

"I am so...tired," she said at length.

He placed the teacup before her, "Ma'am. Your tea."

"Thank you Joseph."

"If you're tired, you should sleep," he sat back on the opposite couch, twining his fingers around his mug.

"Not that kind of tired," she sat forward and took a sip, "No, not like that. I am mentally tired..."

"It's worse than physical tiredness," he agreed.

"And my body is in agony," she said quietly, "I am -"

"A foot massage might help."

She lifted her head sharply, "Well, I haven't saw my masseuse in the longest time."

"I meant from me," he said, without a hint of humour. He was either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.

"Joseph..." she shook her head, "That would be strange."

"I'm your friend," he answered seriously, "I was merely offering. Let me try it, if it's odd...you can ask me to stop."

He stood up and moved to the empty spot on the couch. She uncurled her legs from beneath her.

He slapped his hands against his thighs, "If I am going to do this, I need your feet."

"It's strange," she repeated.

"Fine," he laughed lightly, "As you were."

"I used to be so young," she whispered, combing her fingers through her hair, "I was so able to keep going Joseph."

"You're still going," he answered.

"Yes, but you should hear how my body protests in the morning," she laughed dryly.

"Just like my knees," he answered, straightening his leg out for emphasis.

"How are they?" She tilted her head to the side, "I mean, one would not know when they don't visit the doctor of course. I told you to visit my physician."

"And, in the typical fashion of my gender, I didn't listen," he answered, "I need a knee replacement, Clarisse. I've ruined them through years of stress and exercise. If I get one I'm out for at least 3 months. I can't afford to leave you for 3 months."

"I can look after myself," she responded sharply.

"Yes, I know but I don't want to go, not at a time like this. I didn't mean to imply anything."

"I know. I'm sorry," she touched his arm, "I want you here. It's very simple. I am sorry – to need someone is to be weak. Or at least, to admit it."

"You can admit it to me," he said softly, "I promise."

"I know Joseph," she answered, "After all, I admitted to you that he doesn't want it and nothing has changed. He still doesn't want it. I asked you here for tea because I have a request for you."

"Yes?"

"Will you be my security, when I am former Queen Clarisse? I hate to sound self-interested but it is a sad fact that I will need security."

"What else did you think I'd do?"

"I thought you might retire," she shrugged, "Or perhaps back to Spain."

"No," he shook his head, "I hadn't thought about it."

"So you'll stay?"

"Yes," he laughed, "Of course."

"Good," she said evenly, "I got one thing I wanted tonight."

"Though not a foot rub."

She huffed and pulled her legs from underneath her, landing her feet squarely in his lap. He nearly flinched but not quite. Her stocking covered toes wiggled invitingly, challenging him.

This was stupid, he thought to himself. He hated himself for it.

"This will be strange."

"It won't," he pressed a firm thumb into the sole of her foot.

It elicited an involuntary gasp, her lips parting as she relaxed under him.

"Maybe not," she whispered.

Silence rested across them then, aside from the noises she made. He tried to shut down his own thought process as he did it, to concentrate solely on the task at hand. The noises were unbearably, uncannily, like other noises he had heard from a good few women in the past. The way her foot flexed at his touch was...erotic. He had miscalculated quite astonishingly.

"I can't decide if I like the idea of freedom or not," she lifted her head as he switched to the other foot, begging his own consciousness to concentrate on the task as if it were detached from her.

"How do you mean?"

"I mean, think of the free time I will have. I will be able to visit Pierre in Rome, finally. I will go to Germany and visit my family. I will be very...comfortable so I will be able to do as I wish."

"You will."

"And yet I don't know how to be," she continued, "This is all I've ever know. Perhaps I will write."

"I should like to read it," he patted her ankle, "Relaxed?"

"Yes, thank you," she nodded but she did not move.

He looked properly then at her, her long legs propped up onto his lap, her chest rising up and down gently. Her shirt had ridden just a fraction above her skirt waist band, revealing a centimetre of skin. He kept the silence for a while longer. He couldn't admit that he was attracted to her. He wouldn't admit he was in love with her.

"Clarisse?"

Eventually his knee had grown stiff but he could tell, from the shallowness of her breathing, that she had fallen asleep.

"Clarisse, your majesty..."

She didn't stir. He moved her legs gently and stood up, giving himself a moment to gain his own footing. He hated to admit it even more than her but he was getting on. He rubbed his knees, gave her another moment to stir, and finally gave in. He moved across the suite and opened the doors to her bed chamber, then making his way back to the couch, scooped her up. He didn't really know what he had expected of her – he hadn't expected her to be heavy, but not this light either. She had, because he had thought about it enough times to decide, a very good figure that implied healthiness and a strict diet, not thinness. But she felt thin and frail in his arms. She was little hassle and she offered barely any protest. In fact, she buried her face in his chest.

"Put me down," she finally muttered as he lay her on her bed.

"I have," he murmured, "Good night Clarisse."

"Good night."

Perhaps she had been right about the coffee because sleep proved elusive. He tossed and turned, tangled himself in cotton sheets because he was cold, threw them off because he was too warm. He thought about her bed – about the silk night gown he had spied, a corner of it creeping out from under her pillow. The queen kept her nightgown under her pillow. It both amused and irritated him. She was so normal, yet she was worlds away.

He hated himself for being attracted to her. He had always, always thought her beautiful and they had been friends for a long time but now he found himself looking at her from another, entirely different perspective. He found himself thinking criminal, treacherous things.

And he hated himself for it.


	4. Part 3

Clarisse drummed perfectly manicured nails against the lacy cloth she had chosen, attempting to dispel the tension thrumming in her veins. He offered her a smile across the room and she returned it. A moment later Phillipe, still in his riding gear, entered the dining room.

"I am really sorry I am late mama," he bent to kiss her and it was evident his apology was genuine, "I lost track of time. Pip is still out on the terrace."

"I called for a stable boy though," he continued as he scraped a chair along the 17th century marble floor and, leaving his filthy riding crop on the table, pulled the chair in again. Joseph saw Clarisse's eyes flutter mournfully towards it.

"Your Highness," Joe motioned to the offending item, "Would you like me to take that?"

"Oh, yeah," he smiled, "Thanks Joe."

He reached, with reluctant fingers, for the crop and removed it. He handed it to Felix, the footman who was nearby, and asked him to take it to the stables.

Joseph had done the back-shift when he first started in the palace. It was a nightmare this shift – the king was always late to dinner, for one reason or another. The queen was always irritated beyond belief, the princes were restless and, as they got older, rebellious. There were interruptions to dinner and then often, late nights working in offices. When the king was alive it was often an after dinner argument. In short, it was the shift that every smart person, from every area of palace staff, hated. He had been glad to escape that shift the moment he was promoted.

Now he was the Head of Security he didn't really have shifts but he still did then nonetheless. He was, in fact, not required to work any shifts. He was a tactician and advisor and planner – not actively required to be in service. He just spent most of his time with her. Tonight though, as she always did, she had asked him to stand by so he let Anton leave his back-shift with the promise to repay it.

The conversation, this back-shift, was stilted but Clarisse was trying, and honestly, so was the prince.

"Mia wrote me today," he told his mother as the fish course was taken away, "Or should I say, emailed."

"The tools of the devil," she answered dryly, "What did she write about?"

"School, friends, her friend's save the whales project, her Fabergé egg..."

"She does love that, doesn't she?"

"Yes, she's still thanking me nearly a year on," he answered as he examined the main course, which had just been put down to him, with his fork; it seemed to meet his appraisal as he shovelled a forkful into his mouth.

"I'm glad she liked it," Clarisse answered.

"Mama, all her gifts have been your idea. My case in point; that egg was yours when you were a child! That's why she's loved them," he answered.

"I'm a girl..." his mother answered wryly, "We're supposed to have things in common I hear. I am glad she keeps in touch with you."

"Me too," he answered, taking a sip of his wine.

"Would you like," Clarisse sat back in her chair, leaving her fork at the side of her half-finished plate, "To see more of her?"

"Of course mama," he said softly, without anger, "But it's not possible. You know that. Helen doesn't want it, I don't want it really... for her."

"If you were not king it would be possible. Indeed, if you were not crown prince it would be entirely possible."

For a sensitive subject for both of them, they were handing it very well but Joseph had the advantage of seeing the fist of Phillipe's hand, which he was clenching and unclenching on his thigh.

"Yes but it's not, is it mama?"

"It is Phillipe," she said simply, "_If_ you are no longer crown prince."

"But I am not _no longer_ king or prince, am I?"

His fist, previously clenched on his thigh, flew to the table top and the slam reverberated around the room. She flinched. His patience had disintegrated.

"You're not hearing me properly," she said calmly, "I'm not being clear I suppose. Renounce it. That's what I am saying. Abdicate. Renounce your-"

"Mama," he interrupted, "What on earth do you mean?"

"Exactly what I'm saying," she stood up, leaving her napkin on her seat, "Renounce your crown. It tears me to pieces to say it...but watching one's son torn to pieces is equally as horrifying. Renounce the title."

She moved to stand beside him and motioned for everyone to leave the room.

"No," she suddenly said, "You should stay Joseph."

He bowed and slid against the wall, pulling the doors closed. He watched as Clarisse knelt beside her son and took his hand in hers.

"I will not stand by, my love, and watch you punish yourself any more for something you do not have to," she said softly, cupping his cheek, "I have watched too many of those I love miserable, without witnessing my son in misery. A name is but that; a name. And you can choose how you use it."

She stood up and bent to kiss her son at the crown, "I'll give you as long as you need."

She turned to him, "Walk with me Joseph."

It was only when they reached outside that he realised she was shaking. She stopped at the balustrade to regain her breath and she shook violently, her entire body quivering.

"That was the hardest thing I've ever done," she said quietly, "Or will ever do."

"Take my arm," he grabbed her hand and weaved it through his, "Here. That's it. It's not; you've done far worse Clarisse."

"Nothing as hard," she rested her head on his shoulder, "Nothing as personal."

They were in the midst of her rose garden now. With the fountains switched off there was only the noise of the crickets and soft pawing of the horses. He guided her to her favourite bench in the middle of a circle of rose bushes. She had stopped shaking, her breathing had calmed.

"I just made the biggest speech of my entire career, to a room with only my son and my Head of Security," she said suddenly, "Isn't it ironic? At least it was to two of the people I care about most."

"You care about me?"

"Yes," she answered, "I needed you there tonight. And why, my dear friend, would you ask a question you know the answer to?"

"Just checking," he answered softly, "That's all."

"I need to check on my estates. Rupert's private will left me a good sum, my estates turn over some money and those investments you helped me with...they are there."

Her mind could not calm down. She was frightened and it was evident she felt the urgency to share her panic with him now.

"Are you worried about money?"

"No," she shook her head, "Worried about managing it. I've never managed my own life before."

He couldn't help but laugh, "Clarisse, I'll help you."

"I know you will," she said, wrapping her arms around herself, "I always know that."

"You're cold," he instinctively wrapped his arm around her shoulder, shrugging off his suit jacket as he did so, "Take this."

She took the offered blazer, draping it over her own shoulders. She smiled lightly.

"What brings a smile to my queen's face?"

"It smells of you," she said honestly.

* * *

When they finally reached her chamber it was dark and, as warm days were prone to do, it had turned into a sharp evening. They had taken a few laps around the garden, and discussed both possible and ridiculous ways that she might spend her time after her son abdicated his title. He could see she was exhausted but, contrary to the exhaustion she had described the evening before, she was exhausted in a good way.

"Tea?" He paused at her door.

"Something stronger," she turned to the footman, "Go to the cellar and bring a brandy. 1851 please. And have the kitchen give you two proper brandy bowls. Proper brnady bowls please, I detest drinking it from anything else."

"Why brandy?" He asked as he followed into her suite.

"I took very little advice from my father," she answered, "He was cold and hard hearted and valued his son more than his daughters. But he always told me to salute my victories and my losses with the most expensive brandy in my cellar. Suffice to say that I've consumed a lot of brandy over time. And anyway, it's the only spirit that doesn't knock me out."

It fascinated, and horrified, him that that she delivered those assessments of family members in such cold terms.

She began the exact same routine as the night before, minus the itch at the back of her knee.

"Clarisse," he sat down on her couch, "Don't you ever call for your lady's maids?"

"No," she placed her earrings on the desk where she had left the ones the night before, "I don't want to bother them."

"That is what they are paid for, rather handsomely might I add."

"Joseph, I can dress myself. And undress myself for that matter."

"I suppose," he agreed, embarrassed by her candour.

He's not come and spoken to me yet," she said quite suddenly.

"I know," he watched as she abandoned her shoes at the side of the couch this time and thinking little of what she was doing to him - for how could she - threw herself with a flourish onto the couch beside him. Even that, in itself, was ladylike. She swung her legs round and her feet fell into his lap.

"You've earned yourself another horrible task," she whispered, "Last night is the first night I have slept properly since long before Rupert's death."

He swallowed, "Isn't that because you had bent up your indecision?"

"No," she looked him straight in the eye, "It's because you were here. I have-"

The door to the suite opened and Mrs Kowt came in, carrying a silver tray with the glasses and dust covered bottle of brandy. She curtsied for her queen, who had removed her feet quickly from his lap. He cursed the housekeeper. Clarisse, free from bonds of sincere responsibility, had been about t confide something to him. Disappointment flooded him.

"Colonel," the housekeeper said, "I didn't realise you were here."

"Who did you think the other glass was for Mrs Kowt?" The queen asked, not unpleasantly.

The housekeeper blushed furiously and Joseph couldn't help but be entertained. Clarisse could be a little vile when she wanted to.

"The Head of Security had tea with me in my suite last night, and the night before, and has been doing so for some time," Clarisse uncorked the bottle, "But as the maids know everything, I wager you already know that. You are, and have been, a discreet employee Mrs Kowt. Don't let palace gossip ensnare you now."

The monologue took both the form of a telling-off and a friendly titbit of advice. The housekeeper looked chastened.

"Your Majesty," the housekeeper curtsied and scurried from the room quicker than he thought her capable of.

"That was cruel," he said, taking the glass she held out before him.

"She's harmless but she loves gossip," the queen answered, swirling this sticky liquid around the glass, "You know we are a topic of gossip?"

"I do," he said vaguely.

"Pray tell," she said, raising a perfectly aristocratic eye brow. He wondered if they taught you that gesture at finishing school.

He laughed.

"It's patchy – it's not believable."

"It's _not _true," she countered, swinging her feet back into his lap and closing her eyes, "Where were we?"

"I can't carry you to bed tonight," he said kindly.

She opened one eye, "Why not?"

Because, he wanted to say, I might not be able to resist the temptation to climb in beside you.

"Am I fat?" She teased.

"No, you're beautiful."

She said nothing, but he noticed her mouth tightened a little.

"My knees can't cope," he said, desperate to fill the silence.

"Then, my dear, I promise to try very hard not to fall asleep."

"Ok," he whispered, "Just one request - take your stockings off."

He was impressed by his own daring. Then again, he'd never been particularly shy.

"How do you know they're not tights?"

He was surprised at her response. He thought she might be horrified by his request, yet it seemed merely to have amused her. Perhaps it was easier to shed the title of queen than he'd previously imagined.

"Ladies like you don't wear tights," he said, a little embarrassed.

"No, we don't," she agreed, "Cover your eyes."

He was good at visually imagining things; it was part of his job to be able to visualise scenarios and imagine all possible ends. God, he begged, close my mind's eye down. He saw soft hands raising a richly lined hem to fiddle with lace tops until freed from the pale skin of thighs. So very graphic. No such luck; perhaps because of his desire not to see it so vividly, the image was all the more intense.

"Done," she said, balling up the offending garments and placing them beside her shoes.

"Do you just leave your clothes all over your chamber?"

He took a sip of his brandy and then went back to his task, his fingers working the tension from her feet.

"Yes...mmmmmh," she answered, "They just tidy themselves. I am terribly messy Joseph...I always have been. My governess hated it when I was younger. I really am quite slatternly. It would be awful if I didn't have people running after me. I thought you knew this about me."

"I knew you were untidy but I've never watched you be untidy – you're actively messy," he laughed.

"You will flee from my flaws, Joseph, I promise..." she said dryly, "Just like my governess."

"If I was going to flee, I would have flown a long time ago," he said seriously, squeezing her foot.

"I know that," she said softly, "Don't think I don't know that. Or that I don't appreciate it. You've been...invaluable to me." She sat up quickly to look at him, "That sounded so pompous and officious. I meant you have been a fantastic friend. Forgive my lexical choice -"

"You do have a tendency to be very wordy," he laughed.

"Oh it's awful, isn't it? Rupert used to tell me to stop it..." she smiled.

"I don't blame him," he watched her as she sipped her brandy and it was evident that she wanted to say something.

"I miss him," she whispered, "Not as my husband – he was that in name only - but as my friend. I cared a great deal for him and I leaned on him for so much. Much more than I realised until he was gone. He grounded me on those rare times when I needed grounded."

"Like with Phillipe?"

"Exactly," she nodded, "He would have been better at dealing with this. He was so good at objectivity."

"No," Joseph answered, "He wasn't as close to them as you were."

"Or you were," she responded, "But he loved them. He really did."

"He did," Joseph agreed, "He was proud of them. He would often -"

"Mama?"

The voice shattered the gentle conversation, bringing to an end her relaxed air. She swung her legs round and, straightening up, ran her fingers through her hair to tidy it up. He watched her posture grow rigid beside him. The moment slipped like sand through his fingers and he felt himself grasping for it with a futile heart.

"Mama!" Pierre strode into the suite. He looked tired.

Joseph stood up, moving to stand behind the couch. Phillipe, if he thought it odd to find the Head of Security in his mother's chambers, made no comment to indicate that.

"Mama. Oh, hello Joseph. Mama..." he stopped mid-sentence, his words trailing off. He stood there like a child, wringing his hands as he clasped them before him. Joseph stood up and walked towards the window. He knew he shouldn't leave because she would want him there but he felt uncomfortable so, as he always did, he managed to blend into the surroundings and he was sure they had forgotten he was there. He watched the crown prince sit beside his mother and place his head on her shoulder and sob his thanks like a child would sob their displeasure.

If he had wanted anyone to be the mother of his children, it would have been her. That was why he found himself childless. And the pain crippled him. He hated himself for it.

Her arm went around her son's shoulder as she cradled his head to her chest. He was sobbing now – there was not restraint or honour left. Guilt seemed to flow from him unheeded, spilling into the room around them. All the while she held him, cocooned against her, cooed noises of comfort that were so much more than just noises. It was a cathartic sobbing – ridding himself, exorcising the fear and hate from his body.

She was an incidental mother, she had once told him. I was a mother because I was the wife of a king, not because I was going to be good at being a mother.

The room grew warm and thick, not only with heat, but with emotion. All 3 people there were intensely embroiled, albeit for different reasons.

He cried himself out eventually and after a few more minutes of hushed reassurances and promises between mother and son, Joseph felt it was safe to re-enter their world. First though he quietly opened the balcony doors; letting much needed air into the room. The night air, firmer than the warm day which had proceeded it, rushed into the room, breaking the spell.

The prince sat back in the chair. His eyes were raw and sore and his cheeks were puffy and thick.

"I know what this must be doing to you mama and I can't ever make up for this," he said, "I've thought about your words since dinner and I know this is all you've fought for and all you've worked for and I'm letting you down."

"Have a brandy," she held her glass to him, "We're celebrating our new start in life."

"Mama, this can't be easy for you," he whispered, taking the offered bowl.

"No," she agreed, "It's not."

She turned to Joseph finally, "Come and sit and reassure him please."

Joseph passed behind his seat, grasping Phillipe's shoulder as he did so.

"Your mother wants your happiness," he confirmed, sitting down on the seat across from the couch.

"But it's the end of the Renaldis. My father would-"

"Your father would understand," Joseph interrupted softly.

It was a lie that none of the 3 people in the conversation would have missed but they chose to brush over it anyway.

"What will you do?"

He turned to his mother. His hand reaching out to grasp hers as she smiled softly.

"I will dedicate my time to doing the things I've never had the chance to."

She smiled at Joseph then and he wondered if he was reading something which hadn't been written yet. He shook the thought away. His mind still burned with the conversation they had engaged in just before Phillipe had come into the room.

"Phillipe," she continued, "We will be absolutely fine. We have more than enough talent, education and connections between us to make a very decent life."

Joseph admired her very much in that moment. He knew she was afraid, completely, and yet she was pretending to take all of this in her stride.

"Ok, ok..." Phillipe stood up, excitement expanding his chest, making him see broader and happier.

He was renewed with hope and it showed in his bearing.

"Good night mama," he bowed a little, then turned to Joseph, "I will see you in the morning. Joe, would you arrange for me to go driving tomorrow? Juan usually accompanies me."

"Of course Your Highness," he smiled.

"Thank you Joe," he made his way from the room, almost at a gallop.

She exhaled a breath then, and with a smile that seemed founded upon relief, her entire body seemed to relax.

"Where should I live?" She turned to him, "Where should I find a house?"

It was not an entirely serious line of questioning, though she appeared to find the entire thought of freedom that she had never known enjoyable.

He thought about it seriously, and even though it was one of those treacherous thoughts, thought about how beautiful it would be to wake up beside her, by the sea. She loved the sea – the vast, endlessness of water full of hidden secrets. Many times he had afforded her an hour to steal away to the beach, to walk along the sand with her thoughts.

He wanted to make love to her by the sea, in a bed of clean cotton.

He hated that he had these thoughts.

"By the sea," he answered, moving to sit beside her on the couch.

This time she did not swing her legs up but instead she slid nearer him. He had to lift his arm to accommodate her so she was pressed against his chest. There was, there had been for some months now, a silent transition happening. And they did this silently too. They continued to push lines and boundaries, despite being aware that there was no hope for a relationship. Perhaps, he allowed himself to think, there was now.

She would no longer be Queen and he would no longer be Head of Security.

"I need you to stay," she said into the silence, "I need you."

"I know," he rubbed her arm, "I want to be here."

"Will you stay with me by the sea? We could lock ourselves away in our own world," she continued.

She wouldn't look at his eyes. He was ashamed that she couldn't bring herself to look at him. But he was enthralled too.

"Would you want that?"

"More than anything," she whispered, bowing her head to shield her eyes further.

"Me too," he answered, lifting her face with his fingers,"Don't hide from me. I know how you feel. You know how I feel-"

"Yes," she interrupted, with a strength in her voice he was surprised by, "But I've ignored it for a long time. I've ignored how I feel for a long time. Are you angry at me?"

He was shocked by her blunt admission. He smiled at her then, hoping it would shatter the tension between them.

"No," he touched her fingers on his chest, squeezing them, "No Clarisse. I know it would have been, it will be, impossible..."

He kissed her forehead, hardly believing that this was happening between them. Years of fantasies collided in this one moment for him. He was convinced he would suddenly realise he was imagining it.

"I've loved you for years," he said softly, whispering it almost. There was reverence that came with this admission.

He felt bare, unprotected.

He hated himself for it.

"I know Joseph...and the possibilities are..." she shook her head, "I don't have the right words. I want to say I love you but I'm frightened it will break something between us which I cannot afford to lose. I am being selfish but I can't..."

"There aren't the right words," he said seriously, aware that this conversation felt like it was taking place in a parallel universe to the one in which he had loved her in the shadows for years.

"We'll have lots of time to find them," she smiled up at him then, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, "So you'll stay...as the man who loves me."

He kissed her then; soft, gentle. The first kiss he had shared with her.

"Yes, as the man who loves you."

* * *

Thank you for reading this chapter. Please review.


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